


Part IX:  The Gods

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [33]
Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Love, Power Dynamics, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hisana asserts her authority among the men of the Chambers. Byakuya watches over Rukia's extraction. Renji and Rukia prepare for a new adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part IX:  The Gods

**Part IX: Of Gods, Men, and Monsters**

_on a withered branch_

_a crow has settled-_

_autumn evening_

—Matsuo Bashō

* * *

A stirring of echoes announce them, from the gentle rustling of fine, painted fabric to the soft "clacking" that wooden soles make on the rebounding tread.

The once stale silence that had fallen over the halls scatters like birds taking wing. Bodies, once idle and lingering, part and scurry for cover, as if a predator is afoot. Gazes dart to anything, anything at all,  _besides_ the convoy as it winds its way toward the Central Chambers.

Silk flutters across the marble, so well burnished that it looks  _wet_. Indeed, Hisana catches her reflection as she crosses the length of the hall.

With eyes rooted to the ground, she listens. Her cheeks burn, a rosy shade of pink, and her heart goes cold, still. An early frost spreads its icy tendrils through her, numbing her nerve and quieting her resolve.

Despite her internal winter, Hisana remains painfully mindful of her surroundings, especially the ever-present  _hush_ that accompanies her presence now.

Voices that were once on high, even jubilant, seem to die when she enters the room. Indeed, the invocation of her  _name_ seems to carry the same gory dread as the announcement of a suicide.

Hisana holds her breath as she crosses the hall. The voices have quieted, now mere  _whispers_ , filling her ears like the sound of lapping waves. She catches the tails of conversations.

Censure. Awe. Respect.

Broken words set her on edge until a nascent paranoia takes over. It grabs her. Its fingers are tight and icy against her throat, as if she is choking on phantoms.

She has not inured to the feeling. The knives in the Chambers are not forged of steel, but that does not mean they are any less sharp, any less pointed, or any less dangerous. Instead of a prick against the throat, however, the blade is a cold breath down the neck, a scattering of shadows against the walls, or an intended silence.

"Lady Kuchiki." The voice is distinctly male and distinctly  _forced_. The cheer that falls from the majority leader's lips is a feign, not unlike those feigns her sister practices in the courtyard with such diligence.

The blade can be just as devastating as the word. Both can send men to their deaths. But, it is a game, after all. The violence is of a different kind, but it is just as cutting, just as cruel, and the victories and defeats are just as decided.

"Lord Okappiki," Lord Kyōraku murmurs from Hisana's left. His voice is low, like a warning.

Hisana heeds her traveling companion's tenor, halting almost instinctually. She has her own feigns as well. A well-placed bow, a well-intentioned smile, even a well-executed nod of the head—all are items in her arsenal. "Lord Okappiki," she greets, voice even and cool despite the bile climbing up the back of her throat.

She swallows her disgust without a grimace.

"If I may intrude," Okappiki begins, eyes unfocused, drifting from Lord Kyōraku to the fleet of servants, pages, and attendants that trail behind the Lord and Lady.

"I will return to the Chambers," comes Lord Kyōraku's taut reply. Lord Okappiki can read as much or as little as he wishes, and, given what Hisana has come to know of Okappiki's disposition, he is not a man to be troubled by subtly.

Hisana nods her head, signaling her understanding, but she does not spare Lord Kyōraku a glance. Not that he was anticipating a parting gesture. Their relationship lacks the politesse that Hisana would usually afford similarly ranked noblemen.

Feeling the chill of Lord Kyōraku's absence, Hisana stands a little straighter. Her manner becomes more remote. She is fully aware and fully mindful. She is alone. No ally to cast her a sympathetic stare or a lifeline.

"What does Lord Okappiki require?" she begins, trading walking partners with a calm sort of professionalism.

It isn't as if she hasn't done this before.

Her heart drops like a stone to the pit of her stomach, and she braces for the familiar sting of barbed politeness and pointed glances. The cast may have changed, she thinks to herself, but the Chambers remain untouched. It is as if Aizen's treachery never was.

What did she expect? The Gods of War, Wealth, and Politics form the iron triangle of Soul Society. Those powers have been fortified, tried, and institutionalized for centuries. It would take more than a trio of dissatisfied captains to break one of the legs that is Soul Society's governance.

Briefly, Hisana wonders how Aizen must take this. Is he amused? Affronted? Strategizing in the shadows of Hueco Mundo? As of now, his treachery has proven impotent. Surely, he must know?  _Right?_  Are they missing something?

Hisana lowers her gaze to the hem of her red kimono as she continues across the floor, pretending to listen to Lord Okappiki's tedious introduction, all the while attending to her worrying thoughts regarding Aizen and his confederates.

"Tell me,  _milady_ —"

She loses the threads of her thoughts at the shrill inflection that the Lord placed on "milday."

There is something in the Lord's mien and manner that  _perturbs_  her. Always has. Probably, always will. While she never  _actively_  opposed his ascent into a leadership position among the newly reconstituted Central Chambers, she made her reservations known to the select few—to the shadow government of the Chambers—that he is not a man deserving of  _trust_.

"—how are the budgetary discussions coming along?" he finishes.

"Well," she responds, voice sharp and thin.

"I take it the subcommittee will have a decision shortly?"

Hisana clears her throat, "I believe so." She doesn't know, but her wiry glance does not seem to trigger his suspicion.

"How very diligently milady has been working—"

There is no need to respond. His words sound oily, as if he is angling to catch her off-guard.

Hisana isn't quite sure how to take his compliment, thinking it must be a prelude for censure.

To that end, Lord Okappiki does not disappoint her.

"—hopefully not to the detriment of her husband and children."

Hisana halts, as if his words have erected a wall before her and she has no other choice but to  _stop_  less she careen into it.

Breathless, her brows furrow over her eyes, eyes that search the marble for thoughts, thoughts that are quickly beginning to evaporate.

When she lifts her gaze from the hem of her kimono to her walking companion, Hisana finds Lord Okappiki standing an arm's length away, donning a mask of confusion at her outward expression of discontent. Customarily, Hisana would not react. No. Tutelage at the hand of her husband has trained her to remain stoic even in moments of hateful spite.

But, this? A veiled threat against her family? She cannot help herself.

A smile, burning and bright, buries her disdain, but her words cannot conceal it  _in toto_. "I do not mind milord's censure toward my conduct," she begins, gaze fanning out before them, into the winding halls. "That much, I have come to expect," she continues with a breezy voice and friendly air about her, " _but_ , should the Lord implicate my family, I would not hesitate." She stops, words building in her throat. Words that are not easily taken back. The strings of her vocal cords are taut, like the string of bow that has an arrow at the ready.

Lord Okappiki laughs, a hollow sound to Hisana's ears. "Milady would not hesitate?" he mocks, as if he does not understand her meaning. A wide smile thins his lips, and he chuckles.

_What a stupid man._

"Indeed," she begins, eyes set on the darkened passageways that sprawl out before them, "Speak of my husband or children again, and I shall not hesitate to split you stem to sternum, myself." The words foment an animalistic rage, a rage that builds and spews from her without hesitation or remorse. It is then—just as the Lord is catching his breath—that her dark violet eyes pin him. Low and ragged is her voice as she continues, "I doubt many will mourn your death or even remember to send condolences for your passing to the World or the Living."

Her gaze flashes to the souls that linger in the halls around them.

The few remaining onlookers stand stock still and flabbergasted. Not a single syllable is uttered. Not as much as a breath is spared. The sound of a pin dropping would have felt explosive in that moment filled with strained glances and blanched complexions.

To Lord Okappiki the silence is deafening.

Hisana isn't sure what Lord Okappiki was  _expecting_. A rush to defend his honor? A riot? Whatever the desired response, it never comes, and its absence sets the Lord on edge.

Never one to miss the opportunity to capitalize on a favorable moment, Hisana closes the distance between them. "Have we reached a proper understanding?" she asks, certain of his answer before asking the question.

"Yes, Lady Kuchiki."

And, for a flicker, Hisana hears  _fear_  in the trembling of the Lord's voice.

* * *

Byakuya stands. Silence is his veil, his shield. He lingers in the words left unspoken. Most words are better left unspoken. Confusing, wispy words leave nothing, nothing substantial, nothing to hold onto. No evidence. Nothing physical. Only the occasional stirring of the heart as it waves its wicked spell.

He closes his eyes and exhales.

There is no use. Waiting, wishing, staring—none of it will do any good. The doing is all passive. There is nothing the mind, sharpened to a razor edge, or the sword can  _do_. Instead, he has only the strange amalgam of clear plastic to watch through, patiently.

He is not a patient man, though. Some may mistake him for one. Those somebodies, however, are wrong.

When he opens his eyes, she is under. Back against the bed. Her short, inky locks fall around her head. Her skin blanches and her breathing goes still.

 _The extraction is necessary_ , he tells himself, unconvinced. These words do not belong to him; they belong to the Fourth, to Captain Unohana.

But, he stands, and he stares. He waits. He watches. Passive. He does all the things that he  _hates_ , but he does it with a singular purpose.

He quiets his hands and his mind. These instruments will do him no good, not now. He is useless and left to place his faith in something over which he is no master. It pains him, but he does it because she is his sister, not by blood but by an unbreakable bond.

 _Rukia_.

* * *

She falls back. Shoulder blades hit first. The sweet smell of clover and daffodils smother her as her head hits a pillow of the budding weeds. Her hair, short dark tendrils, halo around her head, and she inhales.

It has been a  _long_ day.

_"Now remember, Rukia—"_

The rich intonations of Captain Unohana's voice wash over her, soothing her initial reservations. Nerve by nerve relaxes. Even now, the reassuring pitch and tone ricochet from bone to bone in her body.

_"Just a little pain—"_

Rukia would've trusted the Captain of the Fourth even if she had placed the business end of her Zanpakutō to Rukia's throat. She was in good hands. No way she was going to die. Not that day.

_"Close your eyes—"_

Breathy, soft—like a summer wind—the words fell like a promise.

The promise had been kept.

 _Mostly_ , Rukia thinks to herself; her left hand reflexively splays across her right breast. Her chest tightens and heaves as she reaches to assuage the pain that emanates from what had once been an open wound.

Her brows knit, tightly together. Her lips pull into a frown. Quietly, she swallows the surge of agony that wanes and crests at varying intervals. The burning heaviness lessens with each hour, but it's there, right in the front of her mind. It will take some time, she thinks, before she can brush it away.

"Eh," she sighs, and her muscles release.

 _Right on cue_ , she muses to herself the moment she feels a long shadow fall over her. Even though her eyes are closed, a rectangle of black blots out the little sunlight that badgers her lids, and she can smell  _him_.

"Renji," she greets, peeking out to find him silhouetted by the golden rays of the afternoon sun.

Without invitation or ceremony, he plops down beside her. "So how did the extraction go?"

"Fine," she lies through clenched teeth as another wave of pain hits her.

He cocks a brow, but he spares her his thoughts. She already knows what he's thinking. Cocked brow is Renji for, " _I bet_." But, just as she has learned him, he, too, has become an expert in Rukia, and he holds his tongue.

For now.

"What did it look like?"

"An orb," Rukia says, nonchalantly.

"What are they going to do with it?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. It's not like the Twelfth is going to explain itself to  _me_." Her lips pull to the side as she considers the possibilities. None of them seems  _great_. Never mind  _how_  she got saddled with the honor of hosting such an item. She assumes the how and the who are likely linked to Karakura Town and that rather peculiar purveyor of sweets and double-dealing, but that is neither here nor now.  _That_  is an adventure for another day.

"So," she says, breath ragged as she struggles to breathe, but she sits up, nonetheless, "I hear that someone may or may not have achieved—" Her voice drops a few octaves and pitch, and she smiles suggestively, as if he can put two and two together.

He stares at her with a quizzical brow. "Huh?"

Renji has never very good at keeping secrets. This time included. And, Rukia has never been very patient. "Show me," Rukia commands in her haughtiest of tenors.

How Renji  _hates_  it when Rukia dons the rank of imperial  _princess._  He feels powerless, as if he is always straddling the edge of a grand capitulation. Somehow, he feels that he shouldn't. It is bait. Really fucking bad bait, at that. He knows good and well that if he harms any hair on her prissy head, it will be a capital offense.

He can see the headlines nows:  _Rukongai Mutt Splits Kuchiki Princess's Hair. Punishment: Death!_

And he's pretty sure they would restock the  _pits_  just for him, just for that occasion.

 _It would probably be for the best_ , Renji thinks to himself in the midst of an internal sigh. Facing a multitude of hollows seems a fairer fate than facing Lord Kuchiki. Renji'd have a sporting chance against the hollows, at least. An angry captain? Well….

Renji represses the urge to shudder at the thought of how such a battle would play out. He has a sinking feeling that it would end with him face-planting as a pile of sorry and cut up flesh fell around him. He can almost  _smell_ the scent of  _blood_  at the thought. The Fourth would probably have to pick up the pieces using spatulas and Yachiru's cookie sheets.

Then, there is the  _optics_ of being downed in a proverbial  _flower garden_.

 _What would the Eleventh think? A seated member conquered by a flight of pink petals_.  _Worst day. EVER._

The Kenpachi would be disgraced, even though Renji is a  _former_ member of the Eleventh. It doesn't matter. Once a man of the Eleventh, always a man of the Eleventh. It runs in the blood.

"Nope," he answers, pulling his shoulders back and holding his breath.  _Hell no_. The pretty, pretty Kuchiki princess is on her own on this one.

Renji might have a death wish, but it is not at the hand of Captain Kuchiki. He has better ends in mind, especially given the impending war. Not that Captain-Commander has  _officially_ declared a war against the traitorous captains, but Renji  _feels_  one on the horizon. It isn't like Aizen is going to sulk off into the eternal shade of time, not after the spectacle that he and his merry band of traitors have caused.

A war is definitely on the horizon. Which only leaves the willing. Who will be selected to lead the charge?

In context, Rukia's sudden bloodthirstiness makes  _sense_. She is merely attempting to refine her  _own skills_ , which raises the question:  _Is her brother not tutoring her anymore?_

Renji just sort of  _assumed_ that Captain Kuchiki has been training Rukia all these years. She knows spells and tactics that are way beyond her years and that are indicative of a soul who  _cares_  about her progress.

_Maybe Captain Kuchiki does not wish to enlist his sister in this war?_

Renji doesn't blame him if that is the case. Not in the slightest. While he understands Rukia's need to feel  _useful_ , Renji also understands the intense need to keep your nearest and dearest safe. And, it's not like Captain Kuchiki would feel any burning desire to explain himself to Rukia. Nope. She probably still thinks that she is a fully functional Vice Captain, but, if Renji was a betting man, he'd place his yearly salary on Captain Kuchiki putting Rukia on cleaning duty for the entirety of the war.

"I'm not ready," Renji mutters once the stillness that envelops them becomes unbearable.

Rukia folds her arms in front of her chest and sighs.  _Heavily_.

It's not  _entirely_ a lie, he convinces himself. Sure, he's accomplished bankai, but he hasn't  _mastered_  it. It's still dangerous. It's still  _unfinished_.

Rukia furrows her brows. Deep lines crease her forehead, and her lips slope into a frown. "Huh?" It sounds an awful lot like a question, but it isn't. It's a judgment. Her mind is sharp, and she discerns perfidy like a man of the Eleventh discerns weakness.

"I see," she murmurs, voice low.

Renji nervously scratches the back of his neck and flashes her a boyish smile. "You know I would, if I weren't so worried that my  _enormous power_  would crush you."

Rukia heaves a sigh and rolls her eyes. "As if you have an  _enormous_  anything…." She spies him out of the corner of her eyes and jerks her head to the right. "You're just  _afraid_."

"Nope," he says, rocking back on his hands before propelling himself to his feet. "Not falling for it."

"Renji!" she cries, half in frustration, half in protest. When she realizes that she is pursuing a real loser of an argument, Rukia changes pitch mid-grumble, "How will you get better if you don't practice?"

"Who says I don't practice?" he teases her between over-the-shoulder glances.

Her brows knit together. "But if you're too scared to—"

Before she can complete her observation, Renji cuts her off with a chuckle, "You don't think there are other soldiers around here that have achieved bankai?"

"Yeah," she responds, "Captains." She narrows her eyes into a glare that would excoriate most other men. "Don't rub it in!"

"Rub what in?"

"That you have a captain that trains you!"

_No one ever said that…._

"Ask Captain Kuchiki if you have such ants in your pants about it," he says nonchalantly.

Rukia's lips twist to the side, dissatisfied.

 _Ah, as I figured_.

Captain Kuchiki  _has_  frozen Rukia out of the Sixth. She is a Vice Captain in title only.

Briefly, Renji wonders how long that will last. Probably not long. Rukia can be annoyingly  _relentless_  when she wants something, and it's not like she will take being side-lined  _well_.

"Gotta go,  _Princess_ ," he taunts her as he takes a long stride forward.

"Renji!" she cries, upset that he will not humor her.

Before he can throw her a clever retort, he trips over a large, meaty lump. He never sees it coming as he quickly tries to adjust his balance in enough time to save himself from the fall. "What the fu—"

"You comin'?" a familiar voice hits him like a slap against the cheek, and Renji gives the man a probing sidelong glance. It's Ikkaku, standing with foot slapping against the ground in agitation.

"Where are you going?" Rukia intrudes before Renji can get a straight answer to his question.

"You're not part of the plan," Ikkaku mutters before turning to Renji, "but you are. So what about it?"

"What about what?" Renji grumbles, straightening his back. "I don't know nothing about plans." First he's heard. Not that he necessarily  _disbelieves_  his comrade, but Ikkaku isn't the most….  _conscientious_ among them. Renji wonders if his friend even remembers the requisite mission details. Maybe he ran out at the prospect of battle without even bothering to learn them in the first place? Such reckless behavior would be typical of a man of the Eleventh.

It would also explain why Yumichika was nowhere to be found.  _He's probably got the directions…._

"Huh," Ikkaku forces the sound up his throat, "Well, they don't engrave you an invitation. Now get your ass moving, and let's go!"

Renji blinks  _hard_ , hoping that it will kick start his  _brain_. No such luck. Not that day, at least. Instead, he watches as Ikkaku presses forward, not willing to spare him a second glance.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Renji's gaze flits between Rukia and Ikkaku. Rukia appears  _incensed_ that she is out of the loop on whatever it is that is afoot. Her lips are pressed into a taut line, her brows dip and twitch over eyes that are throwing daggers into Ikkaku's back. "What does that mean that  _I'm_ not a part of the plan?" she grumbles under her breath.

Renji shakes his head, but, as he reaches for the words, he cannot find them. Nothing is going to make his friend  _feel_ better, and she is in no mood to be patronized, but leaving feels like a traitorous act.

Sinking into his resignation, Renji lifts a brow and shoots Rukia a devious stare. "When has that ever stopped you?"

She replies with a twisted smile and wolfish glint in her eye. "Never."


End file.
